


A Shock, Untreated

by moonvapour



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Post-Dragon Age: Origins, Pre-Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Rejection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonvapour/pseuds/moonvapour
Summary: After the archdemon is dead, Alistair and Mila have a conversation.
Relationships: Female Aeducan/Zevran Arainai, Unrequired Female Aeducan/Alistair (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 1





	A Shock, Untreated

**Author's Note:**

> i've been doing the covid thing of escaping into media that's comforting and while i am way more of a mass effect fan, dragon age also has its pull. i found this in my gdocs and cleaned it up and here it is. this is part of a longer series of fics but this is the only one i decided was good enough to salvage. i'm also pretty rusty on dao lore, so please be gentle and enjoy.
> 
> (bsd fans: don't worry, skk is what i'm still actively writing)

The archdemon is dead, and yet Mila lives.

Somehow the Denerim Redcliffe estate has not been too badly destroyed, and they are heralded, welcomed in, she and Alistair and Zevran and Wynne. Zevan’s arm is round her waist and Alistair takes her shoulders, Wynne leading the way, all in case Mila falls.

Her leg. Mila dare not glance down again. When she did before, she could see the sharp-white of bone, and the world went hazy.

Wynne has cast a healing spell, and she has been given a little food, and that helps. The bleeding has stopped when she comes back to herself, being carried into the depths of the estate.

They are given a whole room and a tiny tub of lukewarm water in the corner. Awake and back on her feet, Mila pulls off her armour and its straps. She swats away Wynne’s hands and Zevran’s support and ignores the too-long stare from Alistair and sinks into the water and almost sobs with relief.

“That is not sensible,” Zevran says, but there is an amused curve to his mouth. “You are badly injured.”

Mila huffs an exhausted laugh and closes her eyes and sinks further into the tub. If it were not for the fact that dwarves do not dream, she would think she had been back in the Fade. Her last sharp memory is the moment the killed the archdemon. Everything after that is hazy.

“There are others that are worse off than me,” she says. “And anyway, I thought you’d have any excuse to stare at my breasts?”

There is the touch of a thumb to her cheek. When she opens her eyes, his face is fond and his hand is stroking her soot-blackened face. “I do not need any excuse to stare,” Zevran claims boldly, but his mouth is sweet when he leans in for a kiss.

For a moment, all her suffering disappears; there is just the faint warmth of the water, and Zevran’s expert mouth making her sigh—

“You!” Wynne crows. Zevran pulls away like he has been burnt and the moment is broken. “Get off her. She’s injured!”

“I was merely wanting to kiss the saviour of Ferelden in thanks for her heroic—”

“Absolutely not!” Wynne blusters. There is no heat to her words, but there  _ is  _ the danger that speaks of an annoyed healer. “Let me heal her first. Andraste save me, you are  _ insatiable _ —”

Zevran sighs as Wynne keeps ranting, a put-on thing that makes Mila smile despite herself. She had thought Zevran’s annoyance to be genuine for a long time indeed, but she can see the humour that curls at the corner of his lips. She can see the darkspawn blood that mats his hair and the exhaustion in every part of him.

“Go wash,” she berates, waving her hand. For a moment, she feels like an Aeducan princess again: in her bath, Nareh scrubbing her hair, Bhelen trying his best to break the door down. Ancestors, she would pay dozens of sovereigns to have Nareh massage her scalp right now. “Wynne, Zevran, you are exhausted. Please find a healer and  _ rest _ . Alistair—”

“I will stay,” Alistair says. His back is turned to them; he is staring out of one of the windows to the destroyed marketplace below.

“Alistair—”

“Absolutely not, Wynne. This is a conversation to be had with the King and the Grey Warden who ended the Blight.”

Mila, naked in her bath, tenses.

Zevran is already on his feet. “I understand,” he says formally. “Let us go, Wynne.” He turns to the door; signs  _ ten minutes _ in the handspeak of the Crows. He pulls open the door and ushers Wynne through.

Only when it shuts behind him does Alistair relax. Mila does not.

Alistair turns from the window. Even covered in gore and dirt and blood as he is, he looks like a king. For a second, Mila feels pride in her work. “It worked.”

Mila nods. “Yes. I would have died if it didn’t.”

“That… is true.” Alistair tugs his gloves off and drops them to the floor, then presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I have a child, because it worked.”

“Yes. You have a child, and I am not dead.”

His hands come away from his face, and his eyes are red. “ _ Morrigan _ and I have a child.”

Mila breathes out something close to a laugh. “Morrigan is pregnant with your child.”

“Maker. We fought an archdemon and ended a Blight today, and yet it is the idea of Morrigan being a parent that is the most difficult to handle.” He huffs and shakes his head and stares at the ground for a long moment, mind clearly somewhere else. Then his eyes come back up, drawn to her face: “What will you do next?”

“That is a good question,” Mila murmurs as though she does not already know the answer. She knew the answer the moment she signed herself and Alistair up to this fool’s scheme, brewed by a witch she, even now, is not sure she should trust.

“You’ll stay?” Alistair barks immediately. The water is cooling around her, and she is naked, and yet it is Alistair who is the one who is exposed. She forgets how _ young _ he is. “With me? In Denerim?” 

“I will try.” She can see the youth in his face; the way his eyes want to flicker down to her naked chest. “Although... I think I may need to leave Denerim for a while.” 

He splutters. “Leave? You are a hero; you should be  _ paraded _ —”

“I am the first Grey Warden to survive killing an archdemon. Do you not think people will have questions about that?”

“So?” Alistair says, taking a step closer. “We  _ make  _ people forget. We don’t make it public knowledge, and—”

“And we send me away for a while, to  _ ensure  _ people forget.” She stares him down, daring him to argue. From the look on his face he knows she is right. “I am correct, Alistair. We will need to organise it. These things are never simple.”

“Yes. You’re right. I hate the fact you’re right.” He groans, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders, then grimaces theatrically. “Maker, I feel dirty. How is your leg?”

“It will be fine,” Mila says, taking the apology despite it not being voiced. “And if not, I am sure will not be the first Grey Warden who has a prosthetic.”

“Let me take you to a healer,” Alistair begins, stepping closer, businesslike. “It cannot be good for your leg, being submerged. I will carry you. You can’t walk.”

“Alistair. We have been over this. Just because I am smaller than you does not mean you can carry me.”

He steps away like she has stabbed him. “So that’s why you chose Zevran, then? Because he cannot carry you?” His face is twisted like he is ready to cry. 

Mila wishes, quite acutely, that this conversation would be over already. She hopes he does not cry again. Ancestors, all she wants is to wash and have be bandaged up and sleep in a secure location with a few dozen pillows for about a week. 

“No, Alistair,” Mila says, like talking to a child. “I chose Zevran because I love him.”

“And because he is not a king,” Alistair finishes sharply. “You told me that before, and you are not a liar.”

“And because he is not a king,” Mila says. She breathes out and pretends it is not a sigh. “And because things might be simple between us, where they will never be simple between you and I. But it is mainly because I love him.”

“I cannot tempt you?” Alistair says, a mocking twist to his tone. He already knows her answer. “Jewels or riches or a throne?”

Mila cannot help it: she laughs. He is so very young, although perhaps older now than when she first met him. “I have had all three, and you could not convince me to take any of them back.”

“Yes. I suppose you have. And you will not stay? Mila, I  _ need  _ your help.”

“I will leave as soon as I am able and then I will return. Alistair, I promise to return. You have Anora and Eamon in the meantime.”

“Yes. Alright then.” He says, then shakes his head. “I did not expect things to be this difficult,” he admits, as though expecting to be laughed at.

“When have things ever been easy?” Mila says shrewdly. “I do not think we would know easy if it hit us.”

“I suppose not,” Alistair says. “Mila, I—”

That is the moment that the door opens again and Astyth comes bounding in, tail wagging wildly. It takes her only a moment to spot Mila and, water be damned, leaps into the tub.

By some divine intervention she avoids her injured leg but begins licking Mila’s face, the stench of wet dog immediately rising through the room. “Astyth!” Wynne yells belatedly, but the dog takes no mind, pushing further until the bath topples over, licking and licking, happy just to see her face.

Mila is laughing and laughing and Wynne is shouting, and Alistair is barking orders at the dog, and over the top of it all, Zevran’s voice, high and teasing: “I am so sorry! I only wished to ensure the dog knew her mistress still lived!”

Yes. At least for the moment, Mila lives.


End file.
